Earlier I had the stereo locked and loaded with some twangy, down-home, military-flavored country—think “Letters from Home” by John Michael Montgomery or Toby Keith’s “American Soldier.” Same as always, halfway through the first chorus my optic ducts started pulling a full-on M203 breach, and I had to run a sleeve across the face. I’ve been a civilian for two decades-plus, but Uncle Sam’s bar-code is still tattooed on my soul.

I signed the dotted line at 21 and finally folded the flag at 32—eleven years, two deployments, and enough Ranger pudding to tile a bathroom. Ever since, I’ve been shambling around the civilian world like a lost private on his first land-nav course, hunting for that same sense of “I’ve got your six, you’ve got mine.” War is hell, no doubt, but there’s a primal rush to standing on the wall when the wolves start howling. It’s the kind of brotherhood where you can still call a guy at 0300, say “I need a squad,” and hear nothing but “Roger that, rolling hot” before the line clicks dead.

So yeah, every time those steel-guitar cadences hit the airwaves, my heart does ten push-ups and my brain says, “Mount up, troop—time to remember who you really are.”